New Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕
Description
Grub Street is the name of a former street in London synonymous with pulp writers and low-quality publishers. New Grub Street takes its name from that old street, as it follows the lives and endeavors of a group of writers active in the literary scene of 1880s London.
Edwin Reardon is a quiet and intelligent writer whose artistic sensibilities are the opposite of what the London public wants to read. He’s forced to write long, joyless novels that he thinks pop publishers will want to buy. These novels are draining to write, yet result in meager sales; soon Edwin’s increasingly small bank account, and his stubborn pride, start to put a strain on his once-happy marriage.
His best friend, Biffen, lies to one side of Edwin’s nature: as another highly-educated writer, he accepts a dingy, lonely, and hungry life of abject poverty in exchange for being able to produce a novel that’s true to his artistic desires but is unlikely to sell. On the other side lies Jasper Milvain, an “alarmingly modern” writer laser-focused on earning as much money as possible no matter what he’s made to write, as he floats through the same literary circles that Edwin haunts.
The intricately-told tale follows these writers as their differing outlooks and their fluctuating ranks in society affect them and the people around them. Gissing, himself a prolific writer intimately familiar with the London literary scene, draws from his own life in laying out the characters and events in the novel. He carefully elaborates the fragile social fabric of the literary world, its paupers and its barons both equal in the industry but unequal in public life. Though the novel is about writers on the face, the deep thread that runs through it all is the brutality of the modern social structure, where the greedy and superficial are rewarded with stability and riches, while the delicate and thoughtful are condemned to live on the margins of respectable society in grimy poverty, robbed not only of dignity, but of love.
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- Author: George Gissing
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“Would it not have been natural for me to seek a renewal of the acquaintance with yourself which had been begun in the country? Gladly I should have done so. Before my sisters’ coming to London I did call one day at your house with the desire of seeing you, but unfortunately you were not at home. Very soon after that I learnt to my extreme regret that my connection with The Current and its editor would make any repetition of my visit very distasteful to you. I was conscious of nothing in my literary life that could justly offend you—and at this day I can say the same—but I shrank from the appearance of importunity, and for some months I was deeply distressed by the fear that what I most desired in life had become unattainable. My means were very slight; I had no choice but to take such work as offered, and mere chance had put me into a position which threatened ruin to the hope that you would some day regard me as a not unworthy suitor for your daughter’s hand.
“Circumstances have led me to a step which at that time seemed impossible. Having discovered that Miss Yule returned the feeling I entertained for her, I have asked her to be my wife, and she has consented. It is now my hope that you will permit me to call upon you. Miss Yule is aware that I am writing this letter; will you not let her plead for me, seeing that only by an unhappy chance have I been kept aloof from you? Marian and I are equally desirous that you should approve our union; without that approval, indeed, something will be lacking to the happiness for which we hope.
“Believe me to be sincerely yours,
“Jasper Milvain.”
Half an hour after reading this Yule was roused from a fit of the gloomiest brooding by Marian’s entrance. She came towards him timidly, with pale countenance. He had glanced round to see who it was, but at once turned his head again.
“Will you forgive me for keeping this secret from you, father?”
“Forgive you?” he replied in a hard, deliberate voice. “I assure you it is a matter of perfect indifference to me. You are long since of age, and I have no power whatever to prevent your falling a victim to any schemer who takes your fancy. It would be folly in me to discuss the question. I recognise your right to have as many secrets as may seem good to you. To talk of forgiveness is the merest affectation.”
“No, I spoke sincerely. If it had seemed possible I should gladly have let you know about this from the first. That would have been natural and right. But you know what prevented me.”
“I do. I will try to hope that even a sense of shame had something to do with it.”
“That had nothing to do with it,” said Marian, coldly. “I have never had reason to feel ashamed.”
“Be it so. I trust you may never have reason to feel repentance. May I ask when you propose to be married?”
“I don’t know when it will take place.”
“As soon, I suppose, as your uncle’s executors have discharged a piece of business which is distinctly germane to the matter?”
“Perhaps.”
“Does your mother know?”
“I have just told her.”
“Very well, then it seems to me that there’s nothing more to be said.”
“Do you refuse to see Mr. Milvain?”
“Most decidedly I do. You will have the goodness to inform him that that is my reply to his letter.”
“I don’t think that is the behaviour of a gentleman,” said Marian, her eyes beginning to gleam with resentment.
“I am obliged to you for your instruction.”
“Will you tell me, father, in plain words, why you dislike Mr. Milvain?”
“I am not inclined to repeat what I have already fruitlessly told you. For the sake of a clear understanding, however, I will let you know the practical result of my dislike. From the day of your marriage with that man you are nothing to me. I shall distinctly forbid you to enter my house. You make your choice, and go your own way. I shall hope never to see your face again.”
Their eyes met, and the look of each seemed to fascinate the other.
“If you have made up your mind to that,” said Marian in a shaking voice, “I can remain here no longer. Such words are senselessly cruel. Tomorrow I shall leave the house.”
“I repeat that you are of age, and perfectly independent. It can be nothing to me how soon you go. You have given proof that I am of less than no account to you, and doubtless the sooner we cease to afflict each other the better.”
It seemed as if the effect of these conflicts with her father were to develop in Marian a vehemence of temper which at length matched that of which Yule was the victim. Her face, outlined to express a gentle gravity, was now haughtily passionate; nostrils and lips thrilled with wrath, and her eyes were magnificent in their dark fieriness.
“You shall not need to tell me that again,” she answered, and immediately left him.
She went into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Yule was awaiting the result of the interview.
“Mother,” she said, with stern gentleness, “this house can no longer be a home for me. I shall go away tomorrow, and live in lodgings until the time of my marriage.”
Mrs. Yule uttered a cry of pain, and started up.
“Oh, don’t do that, Marian! What has he said to you? Come and talk to me, darling—tell me what he’s said—don’t look like that!”
She clung to the girl despairingly, terrified by a transformation she would have thought impossible.
“He says that if I marry Mr. Milvain he hopes never to see my face again. I can’t stay here. You shall come and see me, and we will be the same to each other as
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